


Le Petit Prince

by Silversonne



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drama & Romance, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:41:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26666860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silversonne/pseuds/Silversonne
Summary: They do not know what they want. They are just attached to each other like crazy and do crazy things to each other — in this fic and for real in Enemy Within.Now about the plot. John helped Bruce once… in a very peculiar way and they put it behind that without looking back. But everything started to change after their meeting in Fun House.This is the translation of my story - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188891R-E Translator: ladyxenax
Relationships: John Doe/Bruce Wayne
Kudos: 22





	Le Petit Prince

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank the translator for this amazing job :)

“Are you kidding me? First, you tell one thing, next — the complete opposite! You want to help, use me… and when I try to fight you, you turn away. As if you’re disgusted and afraid of getting your hands dirty. Or maybe you’re afraid of hurting me physically, ah? I wouldn't put it past you. You can put me down like nothing, Batma-a-an!”

John managed to crawl out from under the wrecked plywood wall which he broke through, falling on his back. He stood up, clumsily, holding on his lower back and glaring at his counterpart.

Bruce froze. He felt as if slapped in his face with his second name. Batman. The name was not smashed on his head like Harley’s hammer, bloody and lethally. The name was not thrown like an assassin flinging his knife, like a shot that cannot be avoided at any cost. The name did not crawl out with hateful hissing like a poisonous snake. The name was spit out but not with contempt, but… with hurt. Nobody had ever addressed Batman that way yet. 

“Admit it, am I right? It wasn’t so hard to find you. Enough with secrets! Am I right?!”

“Yes, you are right.”

Bruce tried not to look away. He was looking as long as he could until John made the first step forward and held out his hand.

“Are we still friends, Bruce?” he was capable of talking calmly, without breaking into screams. “Batman? I can help you. We’re like two threads in one stitch. Do you remember? Either we get torn together or will be invincible. For God’s sake, you are Batman! My hero. Are we still together, right?”

Abrupt mood swings. Let them be, it was better than fighting him, than hurting somebody whom you did not want to hurt. Somebody who was hard to forgive for what he did, even if he wasn’t himself at that moment. Bruce hesitated. He could not stop thinking about the dead bodies of Academy agents lying five meters away from him, one of them was mercilessly shot in his back. But he could not tear his gaze away from the eyes beaming with hope, from the eyebrows raised and twitching in excitement… and he offered his hand.

John shook his hand strongly and then pulled it to press himself against Bruce. He was overwhelmed with feelings of relief and happiness. ‘Now everything is going to be all right,’ John thought. Because Bruce was neither lying nor dodging the questions, nor keeping silent — otherwise it would hurt like mad. John had this revolting fear of being hurt like this. If it had not been for what happened in Fun House, he was not sure whether he could muster up his courage to voice his suspicions. But now he was saved, because Batman was so close! No need to worry about the future. John smiled in joy, closed his eyes and pressed his cheek tightly against Batman. 

But Bruce could not move. Everything that was happening now reminded him of what had happened a week ago. His mind jumped down it like a hungry wolf. He kept on telling those memories to go away, away, AWAY!... and could not make himself pull away.

“I’m sorry, John, for doubting you. It’s just… erm… OK, that’s enough…” Bruce was mumbling and avoided staring at the green top of John’s head and his wide happy smile. 

“Oh, buddy…” John finally untacked himself from Bruce, stepped away and now was eyeing him from head to toe, bashfully and not even pretending that he was just looking and not imagining him in a Batman suit. “Don’t know what to say. I’m so… I don’t… me too… Damn, you’re the best I have ever met. Sorry for doubting you.”

“So… Will you help me to find Harley?” Bruce tried to bring the conversation back on the right track.

“Of course, Bruce! Of course, I’ll help you. Or should I call you Batman?” John winked at him playfully.

“Erm… no, call me Bruce, just like in good old days…”

“Too bad. But if you want to, let it be Bruce. I won’t argue. I almost never argue with you, if you noticed it. Wait, I need to find something. My knife, I’ve lost it somewhere. I always keep it with me, you know… I found it by chance in Arkham. It’s not my good luck charm or something but… It doesn’t really matter. I left it somewhere… While holding my defense. Wait, I will find it at once. We still have time.” John was jabbering incoherently. He was fidgeting around and then began to toss about in search of his pocket knife.

“Time? John…” Bruce froze, feeling tension coming up.

“I guess I dropped it here…” John jerked away the dropped flashlight but there was nothing beneath. 

Then he kneeled in front of the female agent, try to turn her over, grasped her shoulders and pulled...

“For God’s sake, John! Get away from her. It’s enough.”

The central light was shining like an artificial sun, making Fun House look unreal, made of brightness and shadows. Even blood — there was so much blood, no use in trying to avoid stepping in it — looked like a stage prop. Signs were flashing on the walls covered in crazy stripes, giving off silent noise and offering to continue the journey though the “fun” maze. Bruce walked along the dark corridor forward until he found the lost knife. 

“Here you are,” he passed it to John. “And that’s get out of here.”

“We are in no need to hurry.” John blinked, gleefully grabbed the knife and put it in his pocket. “I know where and when Harley will come. We have plenty of time. And I… Well, I… would like to change my clothes. I’m so sorry for… getting you dirty like this.”

He looked in annoyance at his shirt covered in blood, at his hands stained with red, and rubbed them in vain. Sheepishly, he raised his eyes to look at Bruce.

“I think it’s… unpleasant… I… the blood is not mine…” once again John gave a nervous laugh, suppressing his giggle. But he still snorted and pressed his bloody hands to his lips, smearing them and his chin with traces of dark. 

“John! Don’t…” Bruce tried to hide how much frustrated and upset he was and, as gently as he could, took John’s hands and took them away from his face. He lowered them while holding, and then freed one hand. Then, looking so determined to brush off all possible objections, he led John to the exit, holding his other hand. He helplessly felt his familiar world full of principles and oaths burning in the sinister flame of inevitability.

♣♣♣

“It’s so freaking pretty!” John could not hide his admiration. He had never been in a car like this, so expensive and chick. ‘Even Harley would be delighted,’ he thought for some reason. “I wish I knew you had a car like this, I wouldn’t have stolen that junk.”

Immediately he poked his nose into the glove compartment but found nothing, then he studied the door, touched the steering wheel and even transmission.

“Holy Hell! The wheel is so pleasant and silky to touch. Just like… you. Smooth and warm. And so sensitive to touch…” 

John bit his tongue, feeling the heavy and disapproving stare, and thought: ‘And so what?’ Basically, he just helped Bruce and comforted him when he was hurt and in pain. 

He noted that Bruce hated to be called handsome, insanely handsome. But why? John could not figure it out. He was not trying to deceive unlike certain people, he was always telling what was on his mind, without flattering or sucking up. If Bruce looked in the mirror more often instead of chasing criminals or smugly parading about his corporation, he would know how amazing he was, helluva good-looking, like a knife stashed in the ward. Why was he so tight-assed? And so perfect… 

The car was dashing through the night and the lights of Gotham were spinning towards them. This sharp and crisp shining was not like dim lights at Arkham at all, it brought intolerable dazzling pain that made John close his eyes and remember how Bruce had almost died because of him. That night when he dragged him to his room. Nobody else was in the shelter that night, because Harley had an idea where to get badass ammunition and told John to look after Bruce. Either she was really afraid he would die from all the injuries or wanted to temporary isolate John from Bane. That night, for the first time in his life John was scared not for himself.

♣♣♣

“No, no… Bane, NO…”

John bit his tongue under Bane’s iron stare. Just a moment ago, Bane nearly choked him outside behind the parked truck, far from Harley. As if sensing that something was wrong, Bruce turned up in time: jumped at them suddenly and recklessly, like jack-in-the-box — ha-ha! — and diverted Bane’s attention to himself.

John stepped backwards, slouching, and stole a quick glance at Bruce who spitted blood and stood up from a garbage pile of broken plywood and metal bars. Limping, Bruce moved towards his opponent. 

“You do know that John can’t control himself…” he gasped out.

Once again, he fell down, knocked out after Bane’s fist hit his chest and his lower back. Bane did not let him rest even for a second — threw him up into the air easily, like a feather, and punched to the gut. Bruce tried to wriggle out like a snake and reach the pressure point at the base of Bane’s neck but failed — Bane had him turn around and smashed with his stomach against the knee.

Bruce gasped, trying to breathe but it was impossible. Gathering the last bit of his strength left, he dashed from the knee but again he was jerked up and smacked with his back against a stone. A ragged string of whitish fungi grew nearby. Bruce’s palms brushed against their slimy caps. The air was filled with aroma of rotten leaves and…

Bane scooped him up again and twisted his arm so that Bruce screamed, almost groaning, and tried to reach the opponent’s neck with his other hand. He thrashed about and felt iron fingers clutching his chin — a little bit more effort and bones would break.

“If one more time you …” Bane hammered words in rhythm with the blows. He did not beat Bruce in the face because he realized — that slippery millionaire would be of no use to them with his beaten-up mug, and Harley would be furious. “If one more time you get into my way… when I’m… dealing… with this… shit… with this… imbecile who nearly fucked everything up. If one more time… I will wring your neck and no Harley will ever protect you.”

He threw Bruce inside the shelter like a puppy, by inches missing Freeze who came out after hearing the sounds of fight. 

“Bane!” Freeze roared almost in unison with Harley.

“Cut if out! We’ve still got something more important to do today.” Harley’s face was distorted in anger but she only needed to raise her voice and Bane stopped dead in his tracks after hearing her commanding shout. “Bruce, you ain’t dead yet, right?”

Bruce did not look up.

Right now, most of all John wanted to rush to his side. But he just gawked instead; his stare was dead, weeping and scary. How would Harley react? What would Bane do? And what would Bruce think after coming to his senses? At that moment John hated himself for being such a coward. He could only look without turning away, look at his friend scratching floor with his fingers, without any strength left even to get up. 

“For fuck sake, John, help him. Lay him down somewhere and look after. What the hell were you doing, Bane?!”

“Why are you getting so worked up? Want someone like him, rich and famous? Will I get invitation to your wedding, honey?” Bane asked, looking especially indifferent.

“If you are not going to shup up, I will break your scull and then you will leave us for good, mark my word. And guys will gladly help me with that.” She easily threw her heavy hammer from one hand to another as if it weighted nothing, and looked at him with contempt. “Stay in line.”

“Okie-dokie,” roared Bane in apology. “After all, we share one goal — to deal with those bastards who killed The _Riddler_. I’m ready to move.”

“So what are we waiting for? Night is short.” Freeze gave a valid reply and headed out; the rest followed him. 

As soon as everybody disappeared, John immediately rushed to Bruce. 

“Come on man, let’s try to get up. Take my hand.”

He threw Bruce’s arm over his shoulder, gathered some strength and stood up. Bruce was not helping, hanging there like a sand bag. John frowned, wondering whether Bruce had got a concussion.

“Come on, you’re not even trying. I’ll drop you at my place. There’s a bed there, narrow one but with a mattress. Freeze actually sleeps on the floor.

The way to the room seemed like eternity. John kicked the door open, stumbled into the pitch darkness and without switching on the lights laid Bruce down on the old ragged coverlet on top of the yellowish mattress that reeked of damp.

“OK, wait, wait a bit… I’ll be quick…” John reassured Bruce and rushed out, talking aloud as if Bruce could hear him at the distance or read his mind. “Freeze had some medical supplies stashed; I’ve seen them. Some rubbing alcohol, for sure. And medical cotton. And maybe even iodine. I guess he won’t notice if I borrow a little bit. It’s somewhere here…” 

He inspected the room and saw some boxes, the fridge with the wife, filthy and nasty stinking bags with hell-knows-what. The first aid kit was in the corner behind the fridge. John grabbed it and open — the locks would not give in under trembling fingers. He took out the rubbing alcohol and some medical cotton, completely missing the fact that he was staining everything with his dirty fingers. Gauze. He ignored some unfamiliar pills. And then, iodine. The cap was loose; dark-amber liquid smeared John’s fingers. He picked up everything he needed and dashed off from the bizarre cold room which he tended to avoid like the plague if it had not been for the trouble that had fallen on his best friend.

In the dark, Bruce was still groaning quietly. He did not get better while John had been running for the medicine. John kneeled down next to the bed and spread out the stuff he brought. First, he unbuttoned Bruce’s shirt and lifted him up, trying to take it off as gently as possible. It took him long enough, but in the end he threw away the dirty sticky cloth stained with mud and blood. John helped Bruce to sit up and rest one shoulder against the wall. Everything — chest, body, thighs, back — was covered in bleeding scratches and darkening bruises.

After the shirt there were the pants, also dirty and torn at the ankle. They had to be washed at least or even better, a new pair was needed. But to take them off was even more difficult because Bruce was not helping at all. 

“Damn you Bruce,” whined John, “Do not lose it, OK? I will think of something. What should I do?”

Bruce tried to reply but only groaning escapes his lips instead of words. 

“All right, say nothing. Better say nothing and spare your strength.” John was on edge and could not shut up. “At first, I guess, I need to rub you with alcohol. But… where should I begin? Scratches on your chest? No, I don’t… I think it’s better to start with your back and then you will lay down. Right? Am I right? Now I’m going to pour some alcohol on your back, bear with it, OK?”

Bruce hissed when cold streaks of bitter-smelling liquid ran down his back. John did his best to absorb it with cotton, he wiped bruises and skin around scratches. Once in Arkham, he watched a nurse treating wounds of a patient. John tried to recall the procedure and repeat it but was not sure if the memory served him right. Because of that he was more and more stressed until he came to his senses after hearing a long groan and words which Bruce finally managed to utter:   
“John, please… do not push my… ribs.”

“Bruce, I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.” John was on the verge of tears and scolded himself for being so clumsy. Suddenly, he realized that he was acting too rough and careless. He panicked and bent double, hid his face in his hands, too afraid to move and hurt Bruce even more.

“John, pull yourself together and… just…” 

Bruce closed his eyes tight and sank on the bed.

“I can do it… I will do it now…” John tried to cheer himself up.

He took more medical cotton and moistened it thoroughly with alcohol. Then, he froze as if seeing Bruce for the first time — his well-groomed attractive body and muscular torso. All girls in Gotham must be crazy about all that, even Catwoman. ‘He could slay even Harley,’ thought John without any jealousy or annoyance, like it was something that went without saying. A perfect picture of a Greek god. Even bruises did not look ugly on him but looking at them made John feel animal anger raising up to his throat; the anger that was hidden inside, waiting for the right time. He clenched his fists, thinking how he would twist Bane’s thick bull neck, and then… he noticed scars — thin and long, rough and star-shaped, wriggling like snakes. He could not believe his eyes and touched to check: his finger met the mark, went down to make sure that he was not seeing things. John swallowed. Why did a millionaire, playboy and socialite turn out to have so many scars? Actually, who the hell was he? What had happened to him so that his beautiful perfect body was covered in scars?

John chased away the obsessive thoughts. Aid came first, and thinking, fantasizing, imagining things would come next. Though one thought, a crazy guess (which he had like since forever), was flashing in the night like a beacon and he could not tear his eyes away from it. Bright and unavoidable like a Bat-signal that evening then they were sitting in a café and talking about girls. The guess made his abdomen muscles twitch. But John brushed away this thought. This thought was unnecessary, groundless and extra, it diverted his attention from what was really important.

John started doing what he had to do. With every scratch he relaxed more and more, doing everything more carefully and better. But Bruce was still groaning and tossing about the narrow bed so that John had to held them down with force. Bruce was hot and sweaty, and so miserable that, after treatment, John caressed his cheek and touched the prominent collarbone. Then, he took a gauze, moistened it with alcohol and put it on Bruce’s feverish forehead.

“Hang in, Bruce… I’ll make you feel better buddy. I didn’t spend all those years in the asylum for nothing.” John laughed at his own joke.

But Bruce did not even smile though he rarely used to laugh at John’s jokes. He groaned, his breathing was heavy and irregular. Perhaps it was contused lung or — God forbid — his ribs were damaged.

John took a deep breath and then made up his mind to climb the bed so that Bruce was between his legs. Trying to keep his balance, John carefully sat down, pressing his knees to Bruce’s thighs and gently felt out his ribs, jerking his hands at every Bruce’s wince and groan. John felt bruises under his fingers: no wonder that Bruce reacted to his touch in such a way. But the ribs seemed to be intact. 

John wanted to relieve his friend from pain. His best friend in the whole world. The only one who listened and talked to him without laughing to his face and calling him moron. The one who sacrificed himself for his sake. Right now, John wanted to make his friend feel better. Suddenly he remembered that Harley did that thing to calm him down once when he lost control and let his emotions take over. That was he called it but Harley described it more accurately: it was a hysteric. It was supposed to be a joke or maybe she was just bored and he totally went overboard. They did not even kiss — that hurt him the most. She just pulled his pants down and did that thing nobody never did for him. He did it to himself with his own hands during long dreary nights in Arkham. She was not even gentle, making him feel pleasure and pain at the same time. And then, everything ended so quickly. She wiped her lips, grinned and kicked him out of her room.

But now he had to be soft and gentle so that Bruce would forget his pain, stopped wincing so badly and grinding his teeth so hard, and would feel better. Handjob might do the right thing, he could repeat what he did to jerk off and make himself come. But John looked at his hands — they were dirty, in scratches and streaks of iodine — and was horrified. He forgot to wash them!

John howled and swore at himself aloud. He looked at the photos on the wall: photos of the smiling Bruce, the sad Bruce, the serious, lonely Bruce, so different in each and every photo but never suffering from pain… And then, he carefully — trying not to touch the bare skin with his dirty hands — pulled off Bruce’s underwear and gasped for air feeling his own erection harden. 

“Calm down, John, don’t be so selfish. Take it easy. Yes, everything about him is so beautiful… everything. Simply everything,” exclaimed John and pressed his hand to his mouth. “Take a deep, deep breath and…”

What if… what if Bruce would not like it? What if he would snap? After waking up and remembering everything. Well, John could always say that everything was a dream. So, he made up his mind. 

His heart almost jumped out of his chest when his lips touched Bruce’s cock. John felt him shiver in response to the touch but Bruce neither said anything nor opened his eyes and did not sit up.

Bruce was so… smooth, clean, salty and damn pleasant to taste. John was too hot at the thought of how much he wanted to know more about Bruce, about his reactions to caress and his sensitive spots.

“You’re amazing…” whispered John and slowly took Bruce’s cock in his mouth. Little by little, he felt it inside deeper and deeper.

Trying to keep his dirty hands off Bruce, John caressed him with his tongue but not as harshly and painfully as Harley did it — like having his favorite lollipop, a rare and almost exclusive treat in Arkham. John was licking every inch of Bruce’s cock and kept on going back to the head, wrapping his mouth or tracing his tongue around it until he head a moan which was so different from a painful groan. John looked up and saw Bruce laying with his head up and face hid behind the hand. He seemed to be unaware of what was happening to him. He was between sleeping and waking with his eyes closed and his other hand was tumbling the blanket.

John smiled with relief. Bruce felt a little bit better. Again, John pressed against him and brushed off Bruce’s impatient hand that reached to the abandoned erection and tried to continue the interrupted pleasure. The hand rushed back but John caught it by the wrist and hold it by pressing to the bed.

John wanted his Bruce to enjoy as long as possible but at the same time he was afraid that Bruce would get exhausted. John felt the wet cock smoothly sliding in his mouth and tried to suck on it gently, without dragging the process. He felt the swelling veins and, with his eyes closed, could not help but think that here and now his friend belonged only to him. John and Bruce. Like two threads in one stitch: they cannot be separated without breaking the stitch. Two sensations, pain and pleasure, happiness and suffering intertwined; there could not be one without another. At first, John used to suffer a long time ago, as if in one of his past lives, being in the place he considered to be his accursed home, one and only, where Bruce once came and showed him what it was like to be truly happy and not alone. Now his other half was suffering and John was not going to leave Bruce alone with all this pain.

After Bruce came, John carefully wiped the sperm, put the used cotton wool to his nose and sniffed it, trying to remember the smell. Then, he pulled back Bruce’s underwear, struggling for a couple of minutes with the blanket and getting it out from under the relaxed and sleepy Bruce. John covered him and settled on the floor. They would not fit to this bed and Bruce needed a good sleep. 

At first, John was sitting in silence and listening to the darkness, and then put his hand under the blanket, found the hot fingers, wrapped his palm around them, squeezing slightly, and fall asleep in this position, suddenly feeling exhausted. 

♣♣♣

“John, we need to talk.” Bruce’s voice yanked him from his trip down memory lane. The voice did not sound angry but was not soft either.

But they were in the car, not in their secret shelter. They were driving somewhere into the night, not holding hands under the blanket. The fleeting sensation of warmth on the palm disappeared quickly, leaving a soft tingling in the fingertips. When John woke up, he clearly remembered the feeling of Bruce’s fingers squeezing his in return. But at that moment Bruce was sound asleep and probably did it unconsciously.

John felt his ears burning. ‘Must’ve turned red again’, he thought in annoyance.

“Not now, OK? I remember you saying we need to have a serious talk, but not now. Please, not now,” John mumbled, totally at a loss. 

He was still caught up in the memories.

He looked at his hands. They were dirty; the same as that night, but the color was different — not the color of coal, but red as a clown’s smile. He would never… NEVER… be as pure, desirable and attractive like Bruce. And Bruce would never want to know what had happen that night. Was everything that happened real or it was a strange wild dream? He would loathe it. John turned away, trying to hide his embarrassment, anger and resentment at himself. He laughed, catching the bridge of his nose between his fingertips and fighting yet another hysterical fit.

“John,” Bruce called him softly. “Are you all right?”

“No. There’s nothing ever all right about me. It’s fun, right? I could laugh my head off,” he snapped. The reply sounded too aggressive and angry.

Bruce said nothing, just gave him a sad and quizzical look.

“It’s nothing. I’m sorry.” John could not take it, gave a guilty smile and turned away to look at the window. 

Gotham skyscrapers were growing around them. Bruce was driving through the unfamiliar streets, going deeper and deeper to the downtown. The car stopped at the shopping mall surrounded by a hectic crowd and splashes of color.

“Wait for me in the car, I’ll be back soon.”

“And what about…” John tried to protest.

“Do you want to scare people? Look, you’re covered in blood. Promise me you’ll just sit in the car, OK?”

John frowned at first but nodded. Bruce is right, as always. He got used to Bruce being right since forever. Even if Bruce was not right — he was still right. 

“Of course, buddy,” he said, feeling better. For the first time after Arkham his clothes would be bought and not stolen. It was fun.

Bruce had been gone as if for ages. Out of boredom John inspected the car and even felt sad for a while until he found a small empty notebook and a pen under the driver’s seat. Here a brilliant idea came to his mind: he should leave a message for Bruce and hide it between the seats or in the glove compartment. ‘It’s gonna be a real scream when Bruce finds it’. John did not think hard and ripped off a sheet. In the middle he drew a heart with a little star inside and streams of light around it. Under the start he wrote name “Bruce”, and a bit higher, above the heart, he drew Batman and wrote in large shaky and childishly cragged letters: ‘You keep me safe outside Arkham. You live in my heart and protect it because you are my friend, my light. I will always love you’.  
He folded the sheet four times and hid it in the glove compartment, and put the notebook in his pocket — as keepsake.

“Are you feeling better?”

John nearly jumped from surprise.

“Did you really need to scare me like this?” He blinked.

“Sorry.” Bruce gave an awkward reply.

“Well, show me what you’ve bought?”

“Hold your horses. Not here.” 

“But where?” John could not calm down. “Let me have a peek at least.”

“No. You will get your new clothes dirty as well. I know a motel not far from the meeting point. You will take a shower there and get changed.” 

“Thank you,” John whispered suavely and once again stared at the window. He pressed his forehead to the glass and closed his eyes, imagining how Bruce would find his message many days afterwards. And giggled quietly. 

♣♣♣

“Aren’t you done yet?” Bruce was sitting on the bed in a small room and listening to the sounds of running water in the bathroom.

The room smelt of the ordered pizza and… olden times.

This motel next to a gas station looked like an old beggar living his last days in poverty — with its squeaky bulged floorboards, grumbling of rusty pipes and smell of cheap cigarettes. Probably it was as old as the city that spawned it. Bruce stayed here once while tracing drug dealers. Everything happened in the adjacent room — confrontation resulted in a quick fight and a phone call to Gordon. Routine work, nothing to write home about.

But with John it was quite the opposite and out of the ordinary. Even right now, his green haired friend — disheveled and jittery — dashed out of the bathroom as if being bitten. His wet hair gleamed in the dim light of the only lamp in the room. He washed blood off his neck and hands but was still wearing his old clothes blotched with reddish stains.

“Why…”

“Bruce, I can’t… I can’t accept this. I can’t wear it. It’s… so… Sorry, I can’t. Let’s go for a drive and eat pizza outside. It’s stuffy here.”

He flung out of the room.

Bruce caught up with him at the car, holding the shopping bag with a brand logo in one hand and pizza in the other.

“You… what the hell are you doing, John? You wanted to change and asked me…”

“I did not ask you to buy clothes SO EXPENSIVE! You think I don’t know how to read a price tag? That’s a whole fucking fortune!” John lost it, poking the bag with his finger. 

Bruce looked at the bag, then at John, put the pizza box on the hood and picked up a malachite green shirt — the color chosen specially for him! — and pants soft to the touch.

“I thought you would like it…”

“Yes I’m madly, so fucking crazy about it. I have never liked clothes so much. It’s just… Look at me… I will… As soon as I put it on it will get wrinkled. It will be ruined. Or I will stain it. Or…”

He leaned against the car and stared at the fields behind the gas station, stretching away to the horizon where lights of oncoming cars were leisurely flashing on the Gotham bridge. Faceless night sky was above them, no moon and no stars. Not a soul around. Motel was drowned in darkness — only a small window on the ground floor was lit where the elderly lady, the motel manager, was sleeping, exhausted after a day’s worth of work. 

It was unfair, to buy so nice things for him. Again, John thought that no matter how hard and often he washed and cleaned himself, he would never be as pure as Bruce. Because of this, desperation was clasping his chest with its greedy slimy tentacles. The same as the place where they were now: age-old like the world itself, lonely like the invisible moon in the sky, abandoned like a coin that lost its value. 

John flinched, suddenly feeling warm. He was hugged, without any words or questions. Gently and carefully. 

“Bruce I can’t…”

One arm was wrapped around his back and shoulders and the other hand began to slowly unbutton his shirt. 

“What are you doing?”

“I’m helping you to get changed.” Bruce whispered.

“You…”

John froze, because after buttons, his pants were unbuckled and fly was unzipped. He blinked, trying to put two and two together. Bruce was really going to undress him right there in the street and help to change into a new outfit? He let out a stifled moan when Bruce’s palm pressed against his cock.

John felt his ears burning.

“Do you realize what I have done? I thought you were…” John’s voice faltered. He cunningly narrowed his eyes, trying to hide the dangerous beating of his heart, and pushed his hips forward, pressing tightly against the strong hand. “Bruce, aren’t you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad. But I’m not sure I want to talk about it. But I want to return a favor.” 

Then an awkward pause followed.

Bruce himself probably was not sure about what he was doing because John saw a shadow of doubt in his eyes. 

“You don’t really have to,” muttered John, feeling tired.

“Why don’t you want to get changed?”

“Because this is not right, for somebody like me… It’s like… like… To put on a gold collar on a flea-infested mutt dog nobody cares about.”

“John, you are not a mutt dog and these clothes is not a collar. This is my gift for you. I thought you’d be happy. You like flashy and pretty things.”

“Are you mad at me?” John asked in annoyance. 

“No, I’m not. Tell me, what I’m doing wrong. I try to help you but I’m always doing something wrong. You wanted to be irresistible…”

“And that’s why you keep your hand on my dick? Because I’m irresistible?” John let out a nervous laugh. 

If Bruce wanted to play games with him, these games were strange. And John was freaking hurt. 

“I…” Bruce got too embarrassed and then suddenly pulled down John’s pants and kneeled in front of him. 

“What the hell are you doing? No! Stop!”

But Bruce did not listen. He took a deep breath of the cool night air and softly kissed John’s skin below abdomen. He paused and his second kiss was at the base of John’s cock. With the help of hands he took it inside his mouth, not deeply. Bruce had to show John that he needed him and could be grateful for all the kindness. It was so fucking stupid, the way he chose to show it. And most likely, he would regret in the morning about destroying the last distance left between them. But now… He could not... He figured it out, not everything but at least some part of what had happened to John today. At least, he thought so. 

Bruce’s touches were clumsy, wet and so gentle that John had got goose bumps. He squinted, ashamed of his own reaction. It must have been uncomfortable for Bruce to touch him there with his lips. John remembered how smooth his friends was and… nearly choked when Bruce played with his green happy trail from the belly button to the abdomen, and then run his tongue bottom-up. John hid his face in his hands, lost in sensations and thoughts about Bruce, in touches and the surprising softness of these lips that talked about serious things in the world and principles.

And then Bruce slightly moved him aside, opened the car and gave him a soft push in the chest. John flopped on the seat and fall over on his back, surprised. He sat up on his elbows and hesitatingly reached out to Bruce. John wanted Bruce to kiss him but was too afraid to ask — he was not a woman and all the more so, not a Cat one.

But all these irrelevant thoughts flew out of his head when Bruce took _him_ into his mouth again. And John forgot about everything. He was panting and moaning aloud and felt he was close to coming. It was amazing and he wanted to sense everything for long, but at the same time he wished to end everything quickly. John put his fingers into his mouth and bit them. If only it were Bruce’s fingers! To lick them, one by one… John was longing to touch him in return but did not know if he had the right to, whether it would anger Bruce. The avalanche of fantasies mixed with real sensations was carrying John away to the deepest abyss. But suddenly Bruce slowed down and stopped. 

“Bruce, no, don’t stop, I’m going to… a little bit more…” John let out a pleading gasp.

“Do you want it quick?” whispered Bruce, blushing.

“I’m just…” mumbled John, “I guess you might not feel good about this. You think you owe me something but…”

Everything inside him turned upside down. What if it was true? What if Bruce did not like what he was doing and now he would stop for good. And in that moment John would die. 

“Have I ruined everything?” whispered John in a dismal voice. Corners of his lips crawled down.

“John.” Bruce covered his mouth with his hand. “Take it easy, I just want to make you feel good.” 

“Why?”

Cold pale fingers wrapped Bruce’s palm and pushed it away, but not letting it go.

“I just want to and that’s all. No whys. Can you stop asking me questions at least once?”

“Then, can you do me a favor?”

“Go on.” Bruce sighed and made himself comfortable on the ground, ignoring the cold. 

“Kiss me.”

“No.”

“Just a peck is enough.”

“No.”

“On the cheek.”

“No. John, just shut up. I have never done it before and now I feel kind of weird…”

“I don’t feel weird.”

“John!” Bruce stopped him firmly, bent over, pressed his palms to John’s thighs and gently blew on his happy trail.

John lost it and moaned quietly, throwing his head back and gasping for air, lost in vivid pulsing and agonizingly amazing sensations, flowing up from his groin to throat and coming down to his knees like a waterfall. His thighs and knees were trembling. 

“Bru-u-uce…” John choked with his own voice and came into his mouth.

For a while John was lying back on the both seats with his head empty as if his soul had left the weakened body.

“Are you ok?” he asked in silence, realizing that tears were running down from his eyes.

Bruce fidgeted. John could not see what he was doing and waited for a reply, holding his breath. Instead, there was a feeling of having a hot cheek pressed against his leg. 

John had no idea how much time had passed and how long they had been like this, in the silence of the darkened world, as if glued to each other. He was afraid to move, to scare away the bat that went quiet. 

“You need to take a shower,” said Bruce matter-of-factly, when John sat up, trying his luck, and touched his hair.

“So, let me go, then.”

“And me too.”

“Is everything OK, Bruce?”

John was staring above the back of Bruce’s head at the corner of the gas station visible through the darkness — as if looks could burn it — until black spots danced in his eyes.

“Yes.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“John?”

“Don’t let them take me.”

“John, I’m here.”

Bruce put his palm on John’s nape, pulled him closer. John forgot what he wanted to say because at that moment, when words were forming on his lips, Bruce kissed him. On the lips. The kiss was long, lingering and sticky like gum, and warm like fire in the night.

“Actually, I’m not gay,” said Bruce for some reason when they were going upstairs to their room. 

“I did not mean that,” said John sincerely. “Me too. And I still like Harley. But not as much now...” 

“Shut up,” reacted Bruce in annoyance.

John burst into laughter. He was laughing like an ordinary guy. 

No doubt, Bruce belonged to him and only him alone. 

♣♣♣

“Now I’m your most good-looking friend. Le petit Prince!” he concluded, dolled up in his new shirt, pants and vest. “And you know what?”

“What?” Trying to keep a serious face, Bruce was checking bat-transmitter.

“It turns out that I don’t really mind having my shirt wrinkled.” John smiled, excited by his new idea. 

His eyes were laughing when he looked Bruce in the face. John gave him a peck on the nose, took the bat-transmitter and threw it on the bed. He hugged Bruce tightly — even tighter than in Fun House — and whispered only one word: “Thank you”.

‘For being who you are,’ he added at the back of his mind.


End file.
